


oh well, oh well

by SvenSpeed



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Harry's always there to comfort him, Louis is fed up with everyone and everything, M/M, Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 10:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14747360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SvenSpeed/pseuds/SvenSpeed
Summary: If Louis was a poet, he would never write about this wedding.





	oh well, oh well

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ages ago in another language, and I can't belive it's in English now.
> 
> [Becky](https://ponymom-stuff.tumblr.com/), thank you for all your help, suggestions and angelic patience - I don't think I would've had guts to do it without you! I'm endlessly greatful <3

Louis watches his wedding suit incredulously, as if it was the first time he had ever seen it. He squints his eyes, one, then the other, tilts his head towards his shoulder, and presses his lips together in thought. _Beautiful_ , Louis thinks, _like a mirage_. Despite the fact that he has never seen one. He only knows mirages dissipate sooner or later - he is not exactly sure when - so his ultramarine suit is not this, not a mirage, because Louis has been opening this wardrobe for the past three days to check if the suit was still there. It’s never failed to be in place. 

_Beautiful_ , Louis thinks again and, with a sigh, pushes the doors closed. They pull back slowly under the door closers’ resistance, and Louis seals his eyelids and counts backwards from five. Even bloody wardrobe doors can’t shut the way he wants - with a slam, with a gust of air and, preferably, with a mirror shattering. Five-four-three-two-one. Louis can make it through today. And through tomorrow, too. And, if he is lucky enough, the day after tomorrow won’t kill him either. He wouldn’t plan any further. 

Louis switches on his phone, and sets his teeth. New texts pour into his inbox so fast he can’t even read them, and the matte iPhone shakes in his nervous, stiff fingers. His mum and sisters are already at the hotel, his father suggests stop unnerving his mother and turn his bloody phone on, El asks whether he’ll come to check on the flowers, a text from Perrie, which is really Zayn, that says a limo will arrive tomorrow at eight forty five, Harry asks where he is, there’s a photo of boxes with champagne from Niall, Liam will bring a photographer, and there’s a sole heart emoji from Gemma - and, honestly, there are so many people involved in this wedding that in the back of his head Louis hopes no one will notice if he suddenly doesn’t show up at all. This all is too much for him. He is not some lord. He is just Louis. All he wants is a quiet wedding with the person he loves. It’s a shame this wedding will never be anything like that. Five-four-three-two-one.

Louis types “come get me” and “I’m at Gemm’s” and rewrites the texts four times because even his own fingers betray him. He doesn’t wait for a reply because he knows Harry will be here in five. He knows Harry will be here tonight, tomorrow, the day after and then beyond that line Louis is still unable to envision. He looks in the mirror and doesn’t recognize a person standing in front of him. He has never looked like this. Has never been less of himself than at this moment. Maybe he's just imagining it, though. Because everyone around keeps telling him he looks wonderful. Maybe they are right. Maybe Louis just thinks too much.

Harry is at his door now more than five minutes later, but Louis’ hands immediately crawl underneath his unzipped jacket, wrap his waist in a hug through an autumn cold shirt, and he nuzzles his neck that smells home. 

“I was on my way from the bakery. They will deliver the cake to the hotel tomorrow, I’ve arranged everything with the staff…”, and Louis feels galaxies exploding underneath his ribs so dazzlingly painful, with no chance to come together ever again. He clenches his eyes and tightens his embrace, as if it could help patch up gaping holes in the depth of his being, and Harry cuts off abruptly. His cold hand caresses Louis’ back, and the other threads through his hair calmly and gently, his breath is warm on Louis’ shoulder through a t-shirt fabric, and Louis can easily imagine them in this very moment after eternity, and even then he will still be breaking into smithereens.

“Let’s get out of here?” Louis asks and hates himself for weakness in his voice. But with Harry he isn’t afraid of it. With Harry he can be whoever. He can be himself. “Remember the park outside the town you told me about? The one with the pond? And a bush maze? Can you take me there?”

“Lou”, Harry says, his hands freezing, and Louis doesn’t know how to get even closer to him. How to get under Harry’s skin just to be. Five-four-three-two-one. “There’s so much else to do. The wedding is tomorrow”.

Harry moves away a little and looks Louis in the face. Perhaps he is the only one who’s never said Louis looked great. Perhaps he knows better. His expression distorts for a fraction of a second, and Louis thinks, at this moment he caught a reflection of himself - haggard and drained and so very tired - but this delusion vanishes as quickly. 

“Alright, let’s see what we have in the fridge. We can have a picnic”.

Louis smiles so happily he almost feels a congealed mask of _everything is fine_ cracking on his face, and the feeling is so alien he has to fingertip his cheekbone unbelievingly. 

Harry is in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge - his black-socked foot rubbing his ankle, a beanie slipped up to the crown of his head, and an open jacket sticks out, blocking the view for Louis, and, god, Louis loves him so much it hurts breathing. 

“We can make sandwiches with…”, Harry drawls, moving something in the fridge, eyeing and smelling something, and Louis bites his lip, “...with something that’s still safe to eat. We have bread and… mustard”.

On this note, Harry gives up and closes the fridge, and chunks of ice crack off of Louis’ heart.

“We could buy pizza on our way there.”

“By the way, did I tell you there are squirrels?” Harry drawls, and his lopsided smile with a dimple is the most beautiful thing Louis’ ever seen. 

“Squirrels?”

“Yeah”, Harry turns his back and checks drawers and cupboards one by one, slams the doors, and Louis can’t get enough of him. “They’re not afraid of people and eat out of your hands.”

He gets to his tiptoes and fetches a rustling pack. Nuts.

“Then why are we still here?” Louis tilts his head and feels his cheeks moving upwards and eyes crinkling. Is he really smiling?

“Because you’re still not dressed”, Harry tosses up a pack of hazelnuts. “Come on, move your ass, I’m getting hot.”

As soon as they get into the car, Louis switches off his phone, first thing. He leans back in his seat and reaches for Harry’s hand unthinkingly, as if it was the only guarantee he still existed. Their fingers intertwine so easily, so natural, so dearly warm and certain that Louis’ heart pounds out of sync. Harry’s eyes are set on the road, face relaxed, and his lovely mouth is twisted in a hardly there smile, his thumb caresses peacefully Louis’ digit.

If Louis wrote poems, they all would be about Harry. About his sleepy eyes, his sharp laugh and coffee-honey voice, about his caring hands and long delicate fingers, about the ringlets of his hair curling on his shoulders. He would write about him singing in the shower, and about their dinners together, about his silly, not funny jokes, about their fights that crush the insights unmercifully, and about the moments of their tender love, about the meaningless gifts that mean the world, and about their future plans, about their radiant earnest happiness. 

If Louis drew comics, he would portrait Harry a superhero, who’d constantly save the planet and Louis, and he’d save Louis way more often than the rest of the world. For Louis he would be all Nine Realms, the whole Universe, his kryptonite and all the Infinity Stones. They would be ever inseparable like Batman and Robin, like Steve and Bucky, like Pietro and Wanda, and Louis is happy he doesn’t draw comics. 

They leave the car at a parking, and Louis’ hand comfortably finds its place in Harry’s hand in his pocket. He shivers in cold wind, humps his shoulders and keeps his eyes to the ground, where yellow leaves float in dirty puddles and Louis’ face is no more than a grey-brown ripple. 

“I’d like to own a raccoon”, Harry says. His face is turned up to the sky, his throat is distinct on the craned neck, and Louis thinks that he himself has long been looking only to the ground because to the sky you have to pray. This instant, a sudden stupid thought strikes him - _what if_. What if he remembered how to laugh again, instead of constantly pushing out those sharp sounds cutting his throat; and what if tomorrow it all went so quickly he wouldn’t even notice; and what if everyone finally left him alone and he’d be able to be with Harry all the time, holding his hand. Louis lifts his eyes to the sky and sees just grey clouds, quickly swimming south, not giving a damn about Louis and his ridiculous hopes. 

“Why would you need a raccoon?”

“I don’t know”, he smiles his lopsided smile again and shrugs a shoulder. “I think, you resemble one.”

“I resemble a raccoon”, Louis repeats, and his lungs press his ribs with so much force he gets warmer.

“Just think of their tiny paws and cocky walk”, Harry sways his hips haughtily, mimicking a raccoon, “they’re always busy with something. Also, they’re super sassy and cute, you want to fondle them all the time.”

Louis finally lets the air out of his lungs, and his head tilts back without him realizing it, lips slide wide, baring his sharp teeth.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about, you’re a raccoon”, Harry croons happily, bumping Louis with his shoulder and squeezing his hand tighter in his pocket.

They walk towards almost leafless, human-height bushes, and Louis brushes his fingers over bare spiky twigs. Here must be very beautiful in summer. Green leaves whisper in the wind, and the sun shines so bright you have to squint, everything smells of warm earth, freshness and life. Louis fists his fingers and drops his gaze again. 

“If I’m a raccoon, who are you then?”

“Hm”, Harry pulls him closer, and now their shoulders brush as they’re walking this grey dead maze with rear spots of green and yellow, “a tiger, obviously. Aghr.”

“A tiger?” Louis has to clarify, and a funny laugh sits in his throat.

“Of course”, Harry nods and turns his head animatedly, looking around. There is no one here, not a single soul, and Louis rolls his eyes fondly because Harry is such an overgrown child. Harry jerks and pushes Louis against the hedge of tall bushes, and stands facing him, right in front, in his space. “To be honest, I have no idea how tigers and raccoons deal in the wild, but I personally would absolutely befriend one”. 

Sharp twigs painfully prick Louis’ neck, nape and even his ear, but Harry towers over him so safe and warm, that the only thing he can do is hug him.

“Is it so?”

“I swear”, Harry nods surely, and Louis feels a smooth glowing stream of life flowing into his body, when the soft lips touch his. Harry kisses him cherishingly, viscously, with soft wet noises, and Louis feels a warm knot forming in his stomach when he senses a smile on the beloved lips. He smoothes them with his tongue, sucks them gently, butterflies them hardly there and hardly breathing, and he catches Harry’s gasp that could transform into a moan any moment. He loves this boy so much his head buzzes, and explosions of Supernovas flash underneath his sealed eyelids. If the Universe was to stop existing right this second, Louis would want to meet its end kissing Harry. 

They feed squirrels with nuts from Harry’s pocket. Louis sits on his haunches with a stretched out arm, while tiny prompt paws snatch hazelnuts and carry them back to a tree hurriedly. Louis sits, biting on his lip, because he really wants to laugh but he's not willing to scare the ginger creatures with fluffy tails and black-dots eyes off. He looks at Harry instead, and he knows that Harry knows what incredible warmth is overfilling his chest; he knows because Harry looks at him with his eyes, green with golden flares, and, if it wasn’t for nuts in his hand and squirrels hustling around, he would jump to his feet and wrap himself around Harry at this very moment. 

Sometimes Louis thinks that if he were Harry, he would hate himself. He would hate himself even more than he does now. Maybe it is the case, maybe Harry does hate him. Maybe he blames Louis, maybe he wants to yell at him or dreams to punch him, or push him off the cliff, or drown him, or shoot-blank him. Louis would want to, if he were Harry, maybe even more than he does now. Instead, Harry smiles at him with his pink mouth, his eyes gleam golden green, and he laughs so brightly that Louis will never question his sincerity. He hugs so tightly and breathes so hot and fidgety, and whispers so incoherently sweet, that it makes Louis’ knees buckle and toes curl involuntarily. He looks at Louis as if there were no other people on Earth, and he lives every day as to throw the whole world to Louis’ feet, as if he was born to live in unison with Louis. And, if only Louis knew how, he would love him even more.

Harry’s phone rings, when they’re walking a secluded alley to a pond. Harry throws a quick glance at Louis and hesitates before he picks up.

“Hello, Mrs. Tomlinson. No, I’m not with Louis”, Louis squeezes his hand in a silent thank you, and Harry gives him a brief smile. “I came by today, he was busy with work. Yeah, works even before the wedding.”

Harry frowns and bites his cheek from the inside, and Louis can’t keep his eyes off him. Five-four-three-two-one. 

“He’s… very excited of course. He asked not to disturb him today. Wanted to finish something important… I went to the bakery myself.”

Louis doesn’t listen anymore. Harry’s fingers squeeze his so hard he thinks - here it is. Now he hates him. Now Harry will hit him, now he will throw him to the pond, now he will leave him all alone. Now the sky will tear open and Louis will get swept down to hell by a burning stream like a last bastard. He is ready for it. He deserves it. 

When a heavy hand lands upon his shoulders, he feels hurled back to the world of sensations - out of his tortured numbness. He suddenly realizes his body is shaking and his eyes are burning, a sticky lump chokes him up, not letting him breathe, not letting him live. Louis catches air with his mouth and wraps himself in his jacket, when his forehead crashes with Harry’s shoulder and strong hands embrace his shaking body tight. They stand silent, Louis’ heart thumps hollowly in his chest, as if there was nothing inside, as if it was flouncing in an empty rib cage, wounded and bleeding. Harry’s cheek is pressed hotly to Louis’ temple, and Louis is ready to ask everyone what he’s done to deserve this boy, and who has punished his most favorite person so cruelly. Louis would scream at the top of his lungs, he would stand on his knees and cry bitter tears, if he didn’t know the answer already. He would drown him himself. Maybe that’s what he’ll do. 

“Have you seen the swans yet?” Harry asks quietly, and Louis could burst into tears right here and now. 

“No”, he breathes out on the verge of sound because of the disgustingly huge lump in his throat, and shakes his head. Harry kisses the crown of his head, and a steady mountain disappears from under Louis’ touch, and suddenly he is all alone in the enormous frightening Universe. Harry tugs him to follow.

Swans are beautiful, Louis thinks. Dainty, graceful, dignified birds. Their feathers are so blindingly white, and necks are so amazingly long, that Louis wants to touch them. Louis thinks that Harry is very beautiful, too. He is not like a swan and he is not graceful at all, but still Louis hasn’t met anyone more stunning. Louis knows for sure that if they were swans, he would twine around Harry’s long neck with his own, he would cover his head with his wing in their sleep and he never, not for the world would let him go. He remembers someone told him that swans allegedly choose their pair for their whole life and die of anguish when they are left alone for good. He cannot imagine someone else being his partner. Another Harry. Another swan. Not Harry. Louis lets out a shuddering sigh and tucks his hand into Harry’s pocket. Why aren’t they swans?

They get back to the car, when dusk in the park turns into a silent darkness, and drizzle sets unpleasantly on their faces. Harry switches a heater on, and hot air hits Louis’ legs. They sit in silence for some time - warm stream floats in, roaring, inside the cabin, random drops of rain crash over the windscreen accidentally and hollow, Harry thumps his fingers on a steering wheel and stares right before him. Louis craves tomorrow never came.

“Do you want to go pick up your suit and then I’ll drive you home?”

Louis swallows and after a couple of moments shakes his head.

“You… Umm… No, I’d rather stayed at Gemm’s. Can you come pick me up in the morning? If not, I can…”

“No, I’ll come”, Harry interrupts him, and Louis buries his gaze in his knees, where his crossed red hands are resting. 

They drive in silence, Harry’s face is dark, but Louis knows its every line. He sits sideways, his temple touching the headrest and one leg is tucked under the other on the seat. He soaks Harry in, his frowned brows and unnervingly sucked in lip, his tense shoulders and eyes concentrated on the road. He hopes to transmit his thoughts, scatter them as dust over Harry’s body so he knew how much Louis loves him, how his heart flutters from the passing touches, how it drops to his stomach from the lush caressing of the lips, how it breaks into pieces every time Harry isn’t there. How Galaxies emerge in Louis’ chest when Harry smiles just for him. 

They get out of the car at Gemma’s house. The windows are not lit because Harry’s sister lives in New York. Because it’s only Louis who lives in her house. Because he can’t live in his own.

“Fuck this”, Harry mumbles, barely audible, and dives into the car to reappear with a cigarette between his lips. Louis closes his eyes. Five-four-three-two-one. The lighter wheel strikes, and he smells tobacco smoke. Harry doesn’t smoke. But it’s finally gotten him, too.

Louis rounds the car and stops in front of Harry, a step away from him. He searches the lovely face with his eyes, mentally begging Harry to say a word. Just one word, and it’ll be enough for Louis. He’ll tell the whole world to go to hell. He’ll tell his mother to go to hell with her moralizing, as well as to his father and his expectations, and their side glances and unvoiced reproaches. He’ll tell his homophobic boss to go to hell with his stupid jokes and dumb ass-kissers. 

All the questions Louis is willing to ask are too egoistic, so he doesn’t even bother opening his mouth. Will you come inside? Will you stay for tea? Do you believe in happily ever after? What are you thinking? Could we be enough? Stay? _Stay._

The only question that truly matters Louis has already asked a wrong person.

The cigarette in Harry’s fingers smolders orange, his cheeks are red from cold, eyes green with golden flares, and every day he saves Louis’ life.

Tomorrow morning Louis will be standing at the altar in his ultramarine suit and with styled hair. The love of his life will be standing by his side, blindingly beautiful in a black suit, with dark ringlets of hair curling on his shoulders, holding in his hands golden rings on a velvet pillow.

Louis’ bride has brown eyes, blonde hair and a smile of an angel.

With squinted eyes Harry breathes the smoke out into the darkness, and Louis is not brave enough to take this sole step forward.

If Louis was a poet, he would never write about this wedding.

“I love you”, his voice breaks in the night silence.

_I want to love you when we are thirty, travel the world with you when we are forty, jitterbug with you at fifty, and love you even more at sixty. Tomorrow I want it to be you. I want to say yes to you. I want to love you while the whole world is watching. Marry me._

Harry takes a deep drag, and the cigarette falls to his feet. He hugs Louis brashly, kisses his temple sloppily.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning”, he croaks, and Louis’ eyes burn so bad he can’t even blink.

If Louis were a swan, he would be embracing Harry with his long neck, and none of them would make it till the day after tomorrow.

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a [tumblr post](http://svenspeed.tumblr.com/post/174222146006/oh-well-oh-well-ao3-36k-if-louis-was-a) if you'd like to share. Or just drop by to chat <3


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